


Rocking

by chasingbluefish



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Background Wolfstar, Community: intoabar, Crossover, Gen, Harry Potter/LotR crossover, M/M, Magic, Mentions of War, Post-War of the Ring, Second War with Voldemort, mild swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 02:20:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20369035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasingbluefish/pseuds/chasingbluefish
Summary: Whilst on a mission for The Order during the Second Wizarding War Remus Lupin finds himself accidentally transported to Middle Earth where he meets Legolas, who tries to help him find a way home.





	Rocking

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so excited to read all of the other entries! Big thanks to the mods for for throwing this ficathon and to Nacho for bringing it to my attention. Muse you are a fantastic beta, I would be lost without you. Muse, Arty, Nacho, thank you for all of your help and support xoxoxox
> 
> When I was given Legolas as my counterpoint to Remus I was quite excited because I have only ever posted in the Harry Potter fandom despite writing in the LotR fandom even though I've writing privately in it for my own amusement. I hope I did both men justice. Thank you for reading!

Remus Lupin huffed out a sigh as yet another pile of books revealed nothing. Well, not nothing. One or two titles would have grabbed his attention under normal circumstances but this was work. The faster he found what Dumbledore had sent him to find, the faster he could be back at Grimmauld Place. Grim though it was, it had beds and friends and food. 

It was a long shot, finding a single old photograph in one of several dwellings. The order had been trying to locate a hidden safehouse used by the other side but all attempts had failed so far. There was no doubt that the cottage in question was hidden beneath heaps of protections, unplottable. But according to Dumbledore, it hadn’t always been. And so Remus had been sent to find the dusty photo albums of a certain Amondsham family who had owned the place for many years before dying out. The headmaster was certain that photos remained in which landmarks and general clues to its whereabouts survived. 

He was in the final home on their search list. No spells had been able to draw out his target nor hint at its location. The room to room search had taken hours and now he was up in the attic, picking through boxes, shaking out books, crawling into every nook and cranny.

No photo. 

“Merlin’s balls.” He muttered, tossing another book onto a trunk. Fatigue tugged at his bones, dragged at his eyelids. What Remus wanted more than life itself, was sleep. Curled up in bed with Sirius, curtains drawn to hide the light. Barely a day back from another trip north to one of the werewolf colonies and Dumbledore had cornered him. Sirius had raged, demanded that someone else go but Remus found himself agreeing anyways. What other choice was there? There was a war on. 

His gaze slid sideways to the old rocking chair tucked in the corner. A ray of sun, softened by dust and cobwebs, spilled across the warm wood. An old throw was draped over the back, perfect for cushioning a person’s head. 

Perhaps if he just…

“Photograph, man. Get the damned photograph.”

Yet somehow he ended up just next to the chair, fingers brushing over the hand-knit blanket. It had survived its years in exile without a single tear or moth attack. His hand came to a stop on the well worn armrest. The wood was warm against palm and he sighed. 

It couldn’t hurt to just sit. He could gather his thoughts, come up with a new plan of attack. 

A groan of contentment left him when he finally settled into the rocking chair. Whoever had built it must have been very physically similar because it seemed to be perfectly in proportion to his body. Maybe he would take it back to Grimmauld Place. A finder’s fee. 

“Yes… a present to myself,” he mused aloud, glancing across at an unopened trunk. His next target? As soon as he figured out who had attached the weights to his eyelids, of course.   


“Fuck.” Remus swore without opening his eyes. Despite the fog lingering around his senses, it was clear he had indeed drifted off and that a chunk of time had passed. The position of the sun felt different on his face, some kind of shift in the atmosphere. It wasn’t a thing he could pinpoint. It was just… different.

Forcing himself to sit upright, he rubbed a hand across his face and took a breath before finally opening his eyes. 

“_ Fuck _.” There was more emphasis this time as he took in his surroundings. One thing was abundantly clear, he was no longer in the attic at the old farmhouse. Instead he found himself seated next to a fireplace in a room, a living room if he had to hazard a guess, and surrounded by stone walls. Scant furniture decorated the space and things were in disarray. It looked as though the occupants had left in a hurry. A smashed vase sat just beneath the window, a wooden bowl overturned beside the dining table. Dust and cobwebs lingered in every available corner. No signs of modernity gave a clue as to where he’d landed. No lamps, no electrical sockets. There were oil lamps, a basket of candles. Everything was primitive but well made. Yet he could find no signs of magic either. 

_ Right. You fell asleep just outside of Sheffield and now you’re… in some kind of what? Medieval hut? No. Not a hut. I can hear noises outside. Horses…? Carriages? People most certainly, although I have no bloody idea what the hell they’re speaking. _

He got to his feet and moved towards the window. Stone streets and stone walls. A few passersby were dressed in simple clothes. Breeches and tunics on the men, shift dresses on the women. Personal decoration varied but more and more Remus began to wonder if he’d gone back in time. 

“That damned chair.” He spun around to glare at the offending object. It sat innocently, exactly as it had in the Almondsham house. Even the blanket was the same.

“Right.” He said determinedly, backtracking and sitting himself back down. He wished with all his might to be transported back to Bramley. When nothing happened he swore. And tried again. He muttered niceties, begging the damned thing to please, please, just let him go back and he would never disturb it ever again. Still, nothing.

Remus slipped his wand from his sleeve with the sudden thought that perhaps his magic wouldn’t work here. 

“Aguamenti!” 

A clear jet of water shot out and the relief of it made him lightheaded. “Thank Merlin.”

Newly galvanised, he went back to peering out the window and then glanced back down at his attire. Patchy robes. Brown. A few of the men passing by were wearing something similar. Only the shoes were out of place. On his feet were a sensible pair of oxfords.

“No time for regrets. I need to get my bearings and figure out where the hell I am. And how to get back.” Speaking to himself had become a habit on long missions. Sirius thought it hilarious, or endearing, if one believed him. Remus didn’t. 

He opened the door a crack and peered out, waiting for more people to crowd the street. Always easier to slip about unnoticed in a crowd. 

Outside the air was warm, pleasantly so, and he paused to crane his neck. The city rose around him like a tower. Stark white walls, the stone almost glistened in the sun. If he craned his neck he could see the city rising upwards, spiraling up, narrowing the higher it grew. At the very peak was a shining tower, needle-like. He shaded his eyes, head tilted straight back.

One thing struck him as he continued to observe. 

There was lots of construction going on. Even from down where he was, which seemed to be the lowest level, scaffolds and wooden cranes dotted the skyline. Every so often he could pick out a patch of scorched stone, or a roof that had caved in. 

This place had seen war. Recently. He could see it in the hollow faces of those who passed, the new hope just beneath. They were rebuilding, recovering. An ache thumped in his chest and he thought of everyone back home. Sirius, Harry, the rest of the children. People he considered friends, people who didn’t deserve the atrocities that were probably still occuring while he was stuck in the street.

“Where the bloody hell am I?” He muttered, listening to the lilt of conversation around him. Whatever language they spoke, he had never heard the like. 

Wand still firmly hidden in his sleeve, he quietly uttered a locking charm on the door. The last thing he needed was someone wandering inside and taking a trip to gods knew where. Or worse yet, taking the damned chair and his hope of going home. Pretending to rummage in his pocket, he pointed the wand squarely at his face and cast a translation charm. A universal charm that allowed the user to understand and speak a foreign tongue, a charm that had served him well in the past. 

Instantly the words around him made sense. Someone was complaining about a nosy neighbor, another pair discussing… dwarves? 

He slipped into the crowd, following and listening. 

Gradually he came to a wider street with shops dotting either side. A market had set up in the center, meager offerings on display. He pretended to browse, listening still. Men in armor passed by, and paused outside of a large set of doors. The sign above was illegible to him despite the charm but as they pushed open the entrance he could hear laughter, smell food. 

“Tavern?” He asked the man next to him, gesturing to the now empty doorway. 

“Aye, and an inn. The Old Guesthouse.” His new friend seemed to be studying him now, eyes darting from the collar of his robe, down to his shoes. Remus tucked his feet beneath his robe and pasted a smile to his face. 

“Thank you.” 

And off he went, before any questions could be asked. 

Inside the inn was exactly what he expected. Not unlike some of the wizarding establishments he’d frequented over the years. Heavy wooden tables and benches were shoved in every available space and a gathering of chairs were tucked around a large hearth. Candles lit the space, wrought iron chandeliers straight out of a period drama hung from high beams and sconces were liberally attached to the walls and wooden columns. Smoke filled the air, a combination of the many lit pipes being smoked and so many open flames in one place. 

He was lucky enough to get a stool at the bar, and when the barman asked him what he'd like he immediately answered 'Ale' with the hope that it was a suitable reply. It wasn't until after he had ordered that he realised he would have to pay for it. Remus dipped a hand into his pocket and fingered the handful of sickles and knuts in his pocket. He doubted the bartender would accept a foreign currency. 

“Fuck.” Again he swore, pulling a sickle out and staring down at it. Would the man take it for it’s value in silver?

“You will not get far with that.” A voice spoke beside him and he looked over and then up, and up again. The stranger was a head taller than every other man in the bar. Long hair fell to his waist, intricate braids keeping it back at the temples. Unlike those around them, he was clean shaven and dressed in perfectly tailored velvet. That this man was a fighter, was obvious. Even now there was a pair of knives strapped to his back. Remus could see the hilts just past his broad shoulders. When his gaze travelled back up to the stranger’s face he noticed the pointed ears. More importantly, the man… was he a man? Was staring at him with curiosity.

“No… I feared not,” Remus answered finally. 

“Are they silver?” 

“Yes, sterling.”

The stranger took the sickle and weighed it in his hand, turned it over and examined it.

“Do you have two more?”

“I do.”

“Here, I have a friend who is always in search of quality silver. I will trade you.” From his belt he untied a small leather pouch and tipped it into his hand. A smattering of gold coins fell out. 

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, take these.” The coins were pressed into Remus’ free hand and he quickly pocketed them and retrieved two more sickles. 

“And… if I were to buy a pint of ale, how many coins would that be?”

“Just one.” A smile was tugging at the man’s mouth. “You are not from here.”

“No. I am from a place very far away, to the West.” Not technically a lie.

“I suspect perhaps further still.” The blond slid onto the stool next to Remus. “I am Legolas, of Greenwood the Great.” He perched with an easy grace, one elbow coming to the counter so that he could rest his chin in his hand. “Lately of Ithilien.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Remus… of no fixed address.”

“Is that why you’ve come to the white city? To find a home?”

“No, I came by accident.” Remus paused as the publican came back to him with a large wooden mug. Remus placed his coin on the counter, thanking him, and holding his silence when his companion was addressed.

“Anything for you Master Legolas?” 

“I am well Sandor.”

“Let us know if you need anything.”

“I will.”

Alone again, or as alone as a person could be in a public venue, Legolas took one of the sickles and began to balance it between his fingers.

“You’re very… popular here?” The awe with which people regarded the blond had not gone unnoticed by Remus. 

“They are not used to elves. Some find us a terrifying thing. Others thought we had gone from existence. Most know me from the war.”

“The war?”

“Yes.” Legolas tilted his head. Remus could feel him studying his face. “You really are a long way off. We have entered a new age here. The reign of King Elessar. Evil has been banished, the ring destroyed.”

None of it made any sense to Remus but he nodded anyways. “Any pointers? To win a war, I mean. I have some evil back home that needs a thorough banishing.” He lifted his pint and took a drink. The strength of it surprised him.

“It would depend on the evil. But I have always found that there is strength in friends. Belief.” With every word spoken, the sickle traveled with increasing speed between Legolas’ fingers and Remus found his eyes following it. 

“We have friends. But we lack numbers. Some of us are losing hope.” It felt good to say out loud. Voicing such thoughts to Order members would have been impossible. “...lots of losses lately.”

“Keep faith. Sometimes it is the person you least expect who will turn the tide. I was thoroughly prepared to lay down my life… we all were. You find yourself capable of things you had no notion of. When one loses conviction it is a victory for one’s foes. It opens the heart for despair. I lost faith once and was proven wrong.”

“It’s just so… exhausting.”

“You look tired.”

“Cheers.”

“You have magic in you though… are you a wizard?” 

The word caught Remus off guard and his head snapped to the side. 

“A wizard?”

“Yes, like Gandalf. Although every wizard I have met carried a staff. Have you lost yours?” 

“No… I er…” After a second or two of hesitation, Remus slipped his wand from his sleeve so that Legolas could see it. “I have a… travel size. Less conspicuous.” 

Legolas hovered a hand over it without actually touching the wood. “...yes. I can see how it would be easier to travel in disguise.”

“Hard to hide a great big walking stick.” Remus found a hint of a smile coming to his face. Is that what wizards were here? An image formed in his head of a bent old man in faded robes and an enormous wizards hat. Gnarled hands clutching a wooden staff nearly taller than the bearer. A muggle archetype.

The elf was watching him again, eyes going distant for the briefest of seconds.

“You are lost. I can sense it. You do not belong here, nor do you want to be here.” There was nothing accusatory in the words. Merely an observation. 

Remus didn’t have it in him to deny or come up with some witty retort. Instead he took another drink from his tankard and shrugged. 

“Right on all points. Not that this isn’t a lovely place. Just… well, you probably wouldn’t even believe me if I told you.” 

“Tell me anyways.” Legolas had drifted back into the cheery persona Remus had first encountered. 

“Back home, the evil I mentioned. We’re at war too. I was on a mission, in a strange house. Looking for something, and I was exhausted. I sat down in this chair to think and I fell asleep. When I woke up, I was here, in your world. Same chair. Different universe.”

Not once did Legolas blink during the explanation or show any signs of disbelief. Instead a slow smile spread across his face. 

“Then we must see this chair.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The chair that brought you here. Take me to it.” Legolas unfolded his long limbs with a fluidity Remus thought no one person should possess, and waited. 

“I tried sitting in it again. It didn’t work.”

“Perhaps we can solve it together.”

Remus weighed his options. To stay in what he had come to learn through eavesdropping, was The Old Guesthouse, and drink his very hardy ale, and make no progress. Or, he could take Legolas to the abandoned home and possibly make no progress there either. Or, get back home, to Sirius. And the war. 

“Come, two heads are better than one.” Legolas was still grinning and when Remus looked up into his face. And damn it all if his optimism wasn’t catching.

“Alright, fine. Let’s go.” Remus shoved his mug away and pushed himself up. After a second’s thought he dropped another coin onto the bar, and got a gruff nod from Sandor. 

“He likes you,” Legolas said as they passed out into the street. 

“Doesn’t seem like he likes anyone.”

“There is a gentle man under all of his bluster. He called me to the inn today to check on his garden. My people have a way with green things, those of us left have moved to the forest beyond the city and we come to aid in the rebuilding, in the regrowth of this place. Once, very long ago, Minas Tirith was filled with plants and trees, shrubs and little sprouts shooting up all over. Garden orchards and climbing vines.” 

Remus was hard pressed to find anything growing outside of a window box as they walked along.

“It is a slow process,” Legolas smirked, observing.

"The best things usually are." Remus smiled back and found that some of the tension had left his shoulders. 

He spotted the doorway through which he had come and came to a stop. Again he glanced around before letting his wand fall into his hand.

"_ Alohomora _." 

The lock clicked out of place immediately much to Legolas' delight. 

"That is very handy!"

"You have no idea." 

They slipped inside and locked the door once more. 

Immediately Legolas was drawn to the chair. Remus could see it in every line of his body, the way his features narrowed in intent. He didn’t need to say a word. The elf crouched down next to the rocker, hands reaching to smooth and almost caress the wood. 

“...” Feeling useless, Remus began to search the room. He’d only done a cursory job earlier and now began to open cupboards and check beneath things. He flicked over the rug and froze. Staring up at him were three photographs. “Are you bloody kidding me?” His knees juddered for a brief second at the sheer relief of finally, _ finally, _finding them. And not only one, but three? In… what did Legolas say this place was? Minas Tirith? In… whatever this place was. 

“Remus?” Legolas was still crouched by the chair, a look of concern on his face. 

“The thing I was looking for. I found it.” With one hand on the rug, he bent to scoop up the photos with his other. “...not the faintest idea how they ended up in your world but here they are.” He turned to hold them out. 

Legolas seemed loathe to leave the chair but he ventured close, eyes widening when he caught sight of the photographs. 

“These are… intricately wrought portraits. How… what great artist has created these?” 

“A camera.” Remus smiled. “...where I come from, we have… machines. Many machines that can do a great deal of things. A camera is a machine that can take a… picture, an image of a moment in time. We can produce them, like paintings.”

“Magic.”

“Sort of. My friends, we need to find a place that’s hidden and these have clues to where it is.”

Legolas regarded the photographs with reverence, traced the line of a tree with his finger. 

“The chair?” Remus finally said, loathe to disturb him. 

“Yes, the chair!” New excitement stole across the elf’s face and he grabbed Remus by the wrist and pulled him over to what seemed such an innocuous piece of furniture. “Do your people… have you any connection to nature, the forest?”

A brief memory of nights running in the Forbidden Forest came to him but he shook his head. 

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“This is no mere chair.” Legolas again touched the arm of it, “Only twice have I encountered beings of this ilk. Over the course of the war we had cause to venture into Fangorn Forest. Some trees there are older than time itself, woven into the first strains of the song. Creatures of myth, long thought gone dwell there. They are named Ents. Trees of great stature and power. Trees who can speak. I have that same feeling now, here with this wood. But how…” He shook his head in wonder. “It pains me to think of one of those giants cut down but there is no malice here, no ill intent. I can only guess that it has been built by a shed branch. Perhaps it fell during a storm, or… whatever the cause, this is a rare treasure. I can feel his story… his eons of life. It feels like home.” Legolas moved as though to sit and Remus immediately objected. 

“Stop, no! What if it takes you to my world?!”

The elf froze. “Yes… it is you we must send back. Come,” He gestured for Remus to sit and Remus tucked the photographs into his pocket before moving to sink back down against the cushions. A warmth surrounded him as though the wood had been sitting before a crackling fire and instantly he felt himself relaxing as he had in the attic. 

Legolas was murmuring under his breath in a language Remus couldn’t understand. It was soothing, almost like a lullaby and he felt his eyes begin to drift. 

“I’ve asked him to take you home.” Legolas said softly. “It was good to meet you, friend.”

“Thank you for your help.” Sleep was descending on him quickly and he felt powerless to fight it, didn’t want to fight it. It embraced him in a warm blanket of comfort. 

“Goodbye.”

  
  


When Remus opened his eyes it was with an energy he hadn’t felt in days, years even. Every part of him felt rested and lose as though he’d spent a fortnight in bed and had Molly’s cooking for a month straight. 

He sat up, taking in his surroundings with a profound sense of relief. The same cobwebs and dust cluttered the attic window, the same piles of trunks and abandoned belongings. 

He dipped his hand into the pocket of his robes and sighed. The photographs were nestled safely inside. Along with the small gold coins. A smile tugged at his lips and he grinned as he stood. 

“Real…” He told himself as he peered out of the window. 

No time seemed to have passed. 

One his way to the door, he paused, backtracked a few steps and stared hard at the rocking chair. It sat innocuously enough in its single shaft of light. Gone was the draw of before. He wondered if anyone would even believe him but realised that he didn’t want to share his adventure. With Sirius, yes, but no one else. It felt like something private, a thing he could keep to himself. 

“Thank you.” He addressed the chair, bowing his head. “Thank you for the journey and for bringing me home safely.” 

Remus thought he saw just a hint of movement, the smallest of rocks forward, but when he concentrated on it, it was gone. A figment of the imagination? Not likely. 

Feeling lighter than he had in weeks, Remus shut the door behind himself and jogged down the stairs.


End file.
